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Tales from the Hollow

In a windswept vale the tree had spread its branches
Its shale like trunk defined by weather had many wounds
One in particular had hollowed inside this stanchion
Braced against pervading skies and silk-watered lagoons
So clearly defined a hole inviting life to commune

A mansion for those seeking shelter together
Creatures came to find their home by legs or feather
I am the watcher to tell this story of fair and foul weather
Of all who have found this lodging and been stricken from this borough
Each war, each death their graves to furrow

A story to tell now both caring and thorough
And so……..

The worker ant carrying heavy burdens forged over its bark
His worker mates did follow
First one, then ten, then hundreds came all as one part
Residing in the hollow
The Downey Woodpecker came to feast
He took them to their death by the hundreds
Until such time their activities had ceased
So now the hollow was empty again for it was plundered

That summer was hot with an august sun when the wasps took over
Building a nest inside allowing them to raise their swarm
Struggling to keep the bastion for their own kind and provide cover
But soon reveling Dark Eyed Juncos swept inside like a summer storm
Attacking like lightning and thunder
Once again the hollow was empty and quite unencumbered

A momma possum without a home for winter
Took her two juvenile joeys deep inside this refuge haven
Protecting them from winter’s strong winds that would hinter
A haven of rest for this small clan to be at peace within but gave in
As spring approached and each found their place away from hunters
And now the hollow was empty again and lay asunder

When in mid-early spring a war was forged
Between grey squirrels and nesting owls
The owls prevailed of course they nested and gorged
On tree rats, baby squirrels, and eggs and young fowl
They were strong in their stature and lasted through another winter
Then disappeared in the white of a stormy wind that howled
Now the hollow was empty again-they could not overwinter

It was the same winter I believe that killed this tree called home
It never surprised us again with the leaves and foliage of spring
The creatures still come as they stop for a while then off again to roam
The birds still nest after many a year their songs they still sing
The hollow in this dead tree’s trunk still tarries with fairies and gnomes
I still watch and wait to tell more stories of home

Copyright © Lonna Blodgett